


Denial Is A Sucker's Game

by dogtit



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, also starring: mercy's minivan, post talon!widowmaker, she's still a dick tho dont let the tag fool you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 04:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8236726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: “I apologize,” Symmetra says after Widowmaker collects herself. “I was not aware that you and Tracer were involved in that way. I would not have suggested this course of action.” “We aren’t.” Widowmaker clears her throat harshly. “We are not involved. It is stress relief.” She takes another sip of water. Bile rises because she can see Tracer making physical contact with Bruyère, touching her wrist. “It’s just sex.” “Bullshit,” Symmetra says simply.(Or, Widowmaker is a useless goddamn lesbian, Tracer is still a terrible spy, and Symmetra is so tired.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever finish a chaptered fic b4 moving onto other stuff? signs point to no
> 
> anyway, have useless lesbians

She is not jealous. She isn’t. She is the Widowmaker, she is literally incapable of a useless emotion like jealousy. Yet, rationally, she knows there is something _off_  about her tonight. There is a disturbing kernel of feeling sitting in the pit of her stomach, swelling with each passing minute as the mission continues. 

Widowmaker tries to do as she always does, or did, whenever she ran a mission for Talon. Dissect the emotion, examine it, narrow down the suspects for easier compartmentalization. Annoyance? Certainly. Anger? Muted, but still on the table. Disgust…yes, that’s a good for it, but it’s not the _right_  word.

“Widowmaker,” Symmetra murmurs across from her, voice pitched low to sound flirtatious but her expression stoic. “Do not deviate from the plan.”

“I was not planning on it,” Widowmaker says from between her teeth.

“Oh? Then is that why you keep throwing Mademoiselle Bruyère cutting glares when we are supposed to be plying her for information?”

Widowmaker’s eyes snap–guiltily–back to Symmetra’s face. Her own feels room temperature and beneath the hard light illusion of a regular skintone her cheeks are no doubt flushed a queer maroon. Which makes no sense to her. She doesn’t have to time juggle two emotions when she still hasn’t identified to former, so she discards the latter entirely. 

“We?” Widowmaker says, picking up her fork and knife and making an effort of tucking into her baked salmon. Steam curls from pink flesh and her mouth waters in reaction. “That is… _Tracer’s_  job, no?” 

Even she can detect the venom with which she whispers Tracer’s callsign. To avoid Symmetra’s arched brow and look of calculated derision, Widowmaker looks at her plate and takes a bite. She tastes nothing, but at least she’s bought herself some few seconds. 

Mademoiselle Angelle Bruyère, a young thing in her twenties and daughter of a wealthy prosthetic manufacturer with suspected ties to Talon and Vishkar both. Winston had dispatched Tracer with the two agents who had defected from said organizations–to offer their expertise in how they ran, Widowmaker guessed–along with 76, Zaryanova, and Lucio as emergency backup. Those three are currently waiting outside the restaurant in Mercy’s minivan. 

Widowmaker and Symmetra are eating at a table close enough to stay within the private communicator signal’s range in order to give Tracer pointers on what to say. Tracer, meanwhile, is doing the footowork of the interrogation. Which is to say she’d gotten dressed casual–going with a far smaller, slimmer model of her accelerator with its light capped and muted–and is currently at the bar with Bruyère and flirting. Bruyère, the pathetic little fool, is eating up the attention. 

 _Aw, girly, lookit you,_  Tracer singsongs in Widowmaker’s ear, though it is to the young woman sat next to her. _I’m thinkin’ red looks real nice on you…_

Symmetra looks faintly ill. Widowmaker is very close to throwing away her newfound alliance with Overwatch to swing back into Talon and beg for reconditioning just so this strange, hot little ball in her stomach can be wiped from her for good. Symmetra taps at her ear, and to anyone else it appears like the woman is adjusting an earring. She mutters some information about Vishkar into Tracer’s ear, to help her win over Bruyère. Widowmaker looks over to the bar and feels every muscle in her body clench. 

Tracer should not have the ability to make a pair of slacks and a button up dress shirt as attractive as she does, much less when she has the sleeves of said shirt rucked to her elbows. Her hair is combed and coiffed and the top two buttons are undone to show her collarbones and just a hint of sternum below.  Bruyère seems very interested in that, the little _slut_. 

Bruyère says something. Tracer laughs with a carefree smile, showing her teeth. The round glasses with orange colored lenses droop down the bridge of her nose as she leans in. Widowmaker hears every word Tracer purrs. _Why don’t you an’ me find somewhere more private, yeah? Pretty thing like you can tell me all sorts of tips, I bet…_

“Widowmaker,” Symmetra tries. She sounds distant, far away, as if Widowmaker is underwater. Her throat is tight and the hot ball in her stomach has grown to a sizable brick of heat. All she can imagine is herself pinning that little brat to the bar and sliding a blade across her throat. _Do you think she looks good in red now, Lena?_  is what she’d sneer to Tracer. 

Symmetra’s hand grasps her wrist. Widowmaker locks eyes on her and bares her teeth, breath catching. A muscle in her jaw ticks; Symmetra does not back down, but she does go pale and she takes a hard swallow. 

“You are going to blow our cover,” Symmetra murmurs. “I understand that you are jealous, but please, try to show a modicum of control.”

Widowmaker narrows her eyes. “I am not jealous.” 

Symmetra just stares at her, then releases her hand. Widowmaker looks down. She has bent her cutlery almost in half and her knuckles are ivory white from tension. Her hands are shaking. Her blood rushes in her ears. Widowmaker discreetly fixes the warped metal with effort and sets it aside as she pulls the tall glass of water to take a lengthy sip through the straw. She says nothing, quietly mortified; Symmetra studiously ignores her to preserve what little remains of her dignity. 

“I apologize,” Symmetra says after Widowmaker collects herself. “I was not aware that you and Tracer were involved in that way. I would not have suggested this course of action.” 

“We aren’t.” Widowmaker clears her throat harshly. “We are not involved. It is stress relief.” She takes another sip of water. Bile rises because she can see Tracer making physical contact with Bruyère, touching her wrist. “It’s just sex.” 

“Bullshit,” Symmetra says simply. The swear is so unexpected that Widowmaker doubletakes so fast her neck cracks a little. “You are going to shut off your communicator, and you are going to sit there, and eat your salmon. Otherwise you are going to plunge a knife into our contact’s throat and if we lose our chance to strike first at Talon, _or_  Vishkar because of this sloppy drama then I am going to personally fill out the paperwork required to file a complaint and I will _shove it down your throat._ ”

Widowmaker merely blinks, stunned. Symmetra spears a piece of steamed brocolli on her fork and glares at her until Widowmaker thumbs off her communicator and tucks into her meal. She still can’t taste it and she somehow feels like a scolded child, but when she glances up now and again she sees that Tracer has completely backed off. That settles her somewhat. Not hearing Tracer flirting helps.

Then they stand up together. Widowmaker’s blood runs cold and that haze of fury– _jealousy_ –nearly consumes her again. Symmetra hisses a curse and nods with her head. 

“Follow them. I will handle the bill. Do not kill her.” 

Widowmaker growls short and low in her throat. “I make no promises.”

She thinks she hears Symmetra sigh _useless_  beneath her breath as Widowmaker follows Tracer and the girl out of the restaurant. Against her hip is the pocket knife Reyes gifted her for Christmas. She slides it into her sleeve for. Reasons. A just in case; it’s self defense, really. She trails the duo back to the hotel where Mademoiselle Bruyère and her father are staying, and Widowmaker clicks the cloaking device around her wrist on. Hard light wavers over her form and reflects the world around her, giving her the illusion of moving scenery. Cautious, slow movements are necessary unless she wants to give herself away. 

She’s still fast enough to shadow them, though. And close enough to hear things that set her teeth on edge.

“Oh, Clarice,” coos Bruyère, arms wrapped around one of Tracer’s, “I don’t usually do this on the first date…!” The blonde gives a naughty giggle, clearly flirtatious. Widowmaker tries not to inhale too sharply through her nose, swallowing back the dark desire to lunge forward and– 

 _You cannot kill the informant. You cannot kill the informant._  She stews over this, frustration quickly mounting. 

Tracer fiddes with her ear; Bruyère will see it as a charming, bashful gesture when in reality Tracer is activating her communicator. “Don’t you worry, pet. It’ll just be a secret between you an’ me.” 

Tracer draws the girl under an arm. Bruyère sneaks her other hand around and boldly grabs Tracer’s ass. Widowmaker digs her nails so deeply into the flesh of her hands that she _aches_ , teeth grinding. Tracer _hates_  it when people paw at her ass like its the only remarkable trait about her. The little harlot can’t see Tracer’s shoulders pinching with tension or the uncomfortable grimace she dons in that precious half a second before its gone, but Widowmaker does and she _loathes it_. 

“Come now, chérie,” Mademoiselle Bruyère purrs, “let’s talk business.” 

 _She did not. That’s–_ It’s a word, a typical endearment, but hearing it from someone else’s mouth in relation to Tracer almost breaks her like weeks of reconditioning couldn’t. – _That is **my**  word, you brazen little shit–!_

“I do like hearin’ about your company,” Tracer says, but her voice is off. She looks as uncomfortable at the word as Widowmaker feels. Espionage and subtlety is Tracer’s weakness, and now she’s off balance. “Like, y’know, actual business related. Really gets me off.”

“…Hearing about my father’s business practices?”

“Makes for amazin’ pillowtalk,” Tracer tries to get back on track. They stop in front of a room and Bruyère leans back against it, beckoning. Tracer leans forward, arms on either side. Widowmaker watches, hidden, and feels like she’s about to lose her fucking mind. She knows exactly where that line is, too; when Tracer is forced to kiss the girl Widowmaker toes it with Lacroix’s precision, trembling from the force of holding herself back. 

“You want to learn how to get to my father,” Bruyère whispers against Tracer’s mouth. “Make me scream, chérie, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Tracer tries, “Or maybe, sweetness, you could just tell me everythin’ right now an’ I’ll give you a bangin’ reward…”

“You’ll find I have a…waggling tongue,” Widowmaker stifles an outright gag, unseen, “after a few hours. Or I could call my security team right now, and…” 

Tracer swallows. She looks pale, sickened, but she says, “Well, what’re we waitin’ for, dove?” and lets Bruyère open the door, lets her drag her inside by belt loops of her slacks, and God _fuck this stupid mission._  

Widowmaker darts in, lashes out with a hand. She pinches a nerve and pinches it hard enough to make Bruyère yelp before her eyes roll in the back of her head and she goes down. Tracer curses, grabs her limp body before she hits the floor, and looks equal parts relieved and furious. Widowmaker removes the cloak, and Tracer jumps. 

“Fucking– _you?_  Ugh, oh my God, really?! I had this!” Tracer gives her a wink, even as she angrily sighs, “Widowmaker cocked it up, hold on, lemme salvage this,” and turns off her comm. She hauls Bruyère onto the bed and then sags on her feet, laughing.

“What is so funny?” Widowmaker nearly snarls. 

“No, no–it’s relief, love.” Tracer breathes out. “How long have you been trailin’ me for? Nah, nevermind; lets get her comp or her phone or somethin’, finish this shit right. She’s bound to have info on hand.” 

They search through Bruyère’s things and find her phone, tablet, and computer. A quick plug in to Sombra later, and all of Monsieur Bruyère’s dirty dealings are now in Overwatch’s hands, soon to be delivered to the UN–anonymously–and now Talon and Vishkar will be one step closer to disassembly. Tracer calls everyone up and tells them to get the van ready, to head to the other hotel they’re staying in just for the mission. Tracer and Widowmaker choose to head over via the rooftops, for old time’s sake, and because Mercy’s minivan is notoriously small.

Tracer blinks over a gap with a hoot. “This is the life, ain’t it, love?!” She looks at peace for the first time tonight, but all Widowmaker can think about is how she looked sitting at that bar, Bruyère’s hands on her body, the jealousy it inspires. Instead of answering, Widowmaker reaches out and grabs her wrist, yanks her close. Tracer yelps into her mouth when she drags the girl into a kiss, both hands fisted in her hair. She’s tense for a moment, before relaxing, letting out a giggle against her lips. 

“Wait, wait,” Tracer gasps, and Widowmaker reels back. “Hold on–gimmie your wrist.” 

Widowmaker holds it out, watching with something like wonder as Tracer pushes up the sleeve of her sweater and finds the watch shaped cloaking device. She deactivates it completely, sighing happily. 

“ _There_  you are,” Tracer says, reaching up with both hands to pet her cheeks. “I nearly didn’t recognize you without you bein’ all blue, love.” 

And that moves her. Widowmaker doesn’t know why it does, doesn’t want to think about it. She gives Tracer a softer kiss as a wordless thanks. Then, almost bitterly, whispers, “The way you flirt is shameful.” 

A breathless laugh. Tracer cups her cheek and presses hot, slow kisses against her jawline; it makes her growl in annoyance and arousal. She drags them both to the floor of the roof and pushes Tracer to her back, straddling her hips. Tracer looks faintly smug, but also quietly worried, and mostly confused. 

“Sorry. Didn’t think my game was that bad,” Tracer says. Widowmaker scoffs. 

“It’s not. It was good. Shameful. Shame _less_.” Even thinking about it in memory has jealousy nipping at her heels. “I–I don’t–I didn’t like it. I don’t like it.” 

Tracer touches her hips, reaches up to try and take her shaking hands. “I…are you jealous, love?” 

“…Yes,” Widowmaker admits, biting the word. “I…I was. I _am_. I do not know what to _do_  with jealousy. It is a weakness. I nearly cost us the mission. Because I could not cope with the thought of someone else–” She reaches down, and even if her voice is hard, cold, she can’t help but pet over Tracer’s hair with tenderness. “– _touching_  what is mine.” 

“Oh,” Tracer inhales, sharp, “ _woof_. That’s…a bit unexpected of you to say, love.” Her voice is hoarse and her eyes are dark from behind the colored lenses of her glasses. “You sayin’ I’m yours, then?” 

Widowmaker lets the pocket knife slide from her sleeve into the palm of her head, then flicks it open with a coordinated twist of the wrist. The silver blade gleams, and she drags it through the front of Tracer’s shirt. Fabric tears; buttons scatter. She does not look away from Tracer’s eyes. 

“Oh, chérie.” She feels pleasantly validated when Tracer bites at her bottom lip as the petname escapes her in a throaty growl. “As if there were any doubt.”


End file.
